Seven Days of Being Replaced

My husband loves watching me get jealous.

He says the more it bothers me when his best friend gets close to him, the more I must love him.

So every year on our anniversary, he lets his childhood friend, Summer Kessler, play "Mrs. Holloway" for a few days, and his friends bet on how long I'll last.

The first year, Summer wore my pajamas and curled up against his chest for a photo. I made her take them off. Grant just kissed me and laughed, like I'd proved him right.

The second year, he gave her our master bedroom and sent me to the guest room. I stood outside that door in tears until he told me it was only for one night.

Last year, he brought her to Sunday dinner at his parents' house, sat her in my chair, and let them call her their daughter-in-law. He only came after me once I'd left the table.

"It's just a word, Nina. You're really going to make a thing out of this?"

This year, they went further.

Summer rolled her suitcase into our house, held up a new set of keys, and asked me in front of everyone, "Grant said I get to be lady of the house for seven days. You're not going to be mad, are you?"

Grant put his arm around her, clearly enjoying himself.

"If she really loves me, she'll be jealous."

Everyone waited for me to cry like every year, so he could grin and call the game over.

This time, I went upstairs and packed my things.

On my way out, I pressed my wedding ring and my house key into Grant's palm.

"Seven days isn't long enough."

"She can have my place for good."

...

Grant didn't come after me.

I was halfway down the front steps when his friends started up behind me.

"Ooh, she's switching up her strategy this year."

"Don't fold early, man."

Then I heard Grant laugh.

"She can't stand being away from me. Three days, tops. She'll come back on her own."

That night, he opened a new betting pool in the group chat and put thirty thousand dollars on me not lasting seventy-two hours.

He didn't call to ask where I was. He didn't ask if I was okay. He placed a bet.

To make sure I'd be the one to give in first, he went into the smart-lock app, deleted my fingerprint, and added Summer's. Then he gave her the spare key, the one that had hung by our front door since the day we moved in. The one that meant you belonged in that house.

Summer posted a photo of it the next morning. The key sat next to a plate of avocado toast, and her feet were at the edge of the frame, tucked into my slippers.

[Mrs. Holloway for a Week — Day 1.]

The comments poured in.

[Master bedroom tonight??]

[Shouldn't Mrs. Holloway be wearing the lady of the house's pajamas?]

Grant didn't tell them to stop. He replied.

[They're on the second shelf in the walk-in.]

I saw the post while I was unpacking at my parents' old house.

Nobody had lived there in years. Dust coated the windowsills, and the kitchen faucet coughed up rust before the water ran clear. The whole place smelled shut up, like a drawer nobody had opened in a long time.

But at least here, nobody was handing out my life as a prize.

The first year Summer wore my pajamas, I cried in front of everyone. Afterward, Grant held me for a long time and rubbed slow circles on my back until I stopped shaking. He said he'd only wanted to see if I'd get jealous over him.

"This is the first time and the last time," he promised. "I swear, Nina."

I believed him.

I believed him the next year, too. And the year after that.

Every year, he broke that promise, and every year, I forgave him, because I loved him and I didn't know how to stop.

Now Summer was trying on my clothes one outfit at a time.

She even went live on Instagram so their friends could help her pick the look that was "most Mrs. Holloway."

She put on my silk nightgown and did a slow turn for the camera.

"What about this one?"

Grant was sitting right beside her on our bed. He glanced up from his phone.

"It looks more fun on you than it does on her."

The comments filled with laughing emojis.

My hands were shaking. I held my phone tighter so they would stop.

Someone asked where I was.

Summer's eyes filled with tears almost instantly.

"Nina really can't take a joke. It's literally just a challenge," she said. "I was only doing Grant a favor. How was I supposed to know she'd actually pack up and leave?" She sniffed and gave the camera a small smile. "But come on. We all know she'll be back."

Grant pulled a tissue from the box on my nightstand and handed it to her.

A minute later, my phone buzzed with a text from him.

[Every marriage needs a little spice. There's no reason to get this upset over a joke.]

[If you're going to keep doing the whole running-away thing, come get your stuff.]

So I went to get my stuff.

When I got to the house, the lock didn't recognize my thumb.

I tried twice. The keypad flashed red both times.

I was standing on the front porch of my own home, and I couldn't get in.

Summer was the one who opened the door.

She was wearing my pajamas and my slippers.

The master bedroom had been redone in her favorite shade of pink. My skincare had been swept off the bathroom counter into a cardboard box. Our wedding photo had been taken down from the wall above the bed and propped in the corner, and the box sat right in front of it, covering half my face.

I stared at that photo.

On our wedding day, I had thought that man would never let anyone hurt me.

Now he had taken me down off the wall and left me in the corner behind a box of my own things.

Grant pushed the box toward me with his foot.

"Nina, the playing-hard-to-get thing only works once."

Summer bit her lip. "Maybe I should just take the guest room," she said softly.

She said it without taking a single step out of the master.

Just as she must have known he would, Grant caught her wrist.

"The lady of the house sleeps in the master."

Then he looked at me.

I knew that look. I had seen it every year for three years. He was amused, and he was waiting. Waiting for me to fight her for the bed, or break down and ask him which one of us he really loved, so he could pull me into his arms and tell everyone he had won again.

For three years, I had given him exactly what he wanted.

I couldn't do it anymore.

I bent down and picked up the box.

"Did I miss anything?"

For the first time, the smile on Grant's face faded.

He stared at me for a few seconds. When he finally spoke, his voice had gone cold.

"You're really committing this time, Nina."

"Let's see how many more days you can keep it up."

I didn't answer.

I turned around and closed the door behind me.